


The Heart of Chon'sin

by maevestrom



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Art, Celebrations, Conflict, Culture, Developing Friendships, F/M, Family, Festivals, Food, Foreign Language, Fountain, Friendship, Heart, Home, Internal Conflict, Music, Mysticism, Ocean, Pre-Canon, Princes & Princesses, Revolution, Royalty, Unexpected Visitors, War, thieves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 15:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15221780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maevestrom/pseuds/maevestrom
Summary: During the most tumultuous part of Chon'sin's history, Princess Say'ri goes to attend a festival, and runs into a mysterious new legend and everything he does and does not want to tell her, and the two set off to enjoy the night





	1. Chapter 1

You tend not to think on it too often.

Thinking on it makes it real.

You walk through the square of Chon'sin's largest city, named after its country back when Valm was one nation entire- which may be the case again. It is a general rule that princesses do not associate with the common folk, but you've always bidden fie to the rules. There is no one to watch you, no one to judge you- at least, none to impress. (Perhaps Walhart, if you ask your brother, but to hell with that). In many ways, it is a curse, but you will never deny the positives lest they cease to exist whilst you take them for granted.

There is little you can take for granted at this rate.

There is a festival going on today, you've heard from many a council meeting that seems to care a little much about this one. It’s the third since the death of your parents, and the first since your brother began to acquiesce to Walhart as an ally. It's a Chon'sin tradition, though you've always forgotten the date or even the moon cycle, as you've never attended. In most years, you have seen the edge of proceedings from a castle window. Others where you were more risky, you visited in a carriage, waving from the windows at those you passed. Some, you never left your room at all, forgetting that your citizens were celebrating at all. Perhaps that's what you took for granted most- their happiness, and the presumption that it would be eternal.

Perhaps that's why you traverse the streets. You dress in fine clothes, but not the robes of a Chon'sin dynast- rather, the best garb of a swordfighter- your shirt as skintight as your skirt is loose, for you to run and swipe without distraction. Further still, a pair of katanas lie in two holsters along your back. You would so like to enjoy this moment, but you cannot avoid the nagging fear that something could happen.

You tell yourself that something could _always_ happen, but _always_ is not the amount of time you have had twin swords resting on guard against your back. It was at the insistence of your brother Yen’fay that you wore them if you dared venture out on town, much more a demand than the request he posed. Your eyes close as you think back to mother and father, and can only think on the change within Yen’fay into someone less open and more solemn than you already knew him to be. You never mention it to him, but you are angry that he stole the memory of your parents with his desperate, craven need for safety.

The palace rests atop a hill to the south, a watchful, disconnected guardian, the southern sea audible behind it as violent waves crash miles away. If you had no ken of the castle inside and out you would forget its existence, wonder what held the storm of the seas back if not for the large wall they shore against as it fades in and out of construction. Before it is the mouth of the city Chon'sin as its opens to each side. Yet the city sprawls to its east, and it repeats endless on every side against you except the one eastern, where it fades abruptly into a guarding wall that combs the side of the plains nearest the hill into the nothingness that you assume is the ocean. It is well guarded, and even from here you can see troops marching atop the paths on the walls. It feels like a safe haven, even as it feels more performative and fantastical; a fine idea.

The swords on your back remind you how you refuse comfort as a lie.

You find a seat on a fountain edge, feeling the remnants of its spray slap against your back before dying out in the pool. You hear people you only vaguely see walk in and out of frame; human forms rather than citizens. You don’t recognize them, and those who spare passing glances at you seem not to either- not that posters of royalty are commonplace enough for many to recognize you on sight. It is strange, however, to be its leader and a mystery entire.

You feel someone sit near you on the edge, their weight shifting into position. You don’t pay it mind until you feel the person move closer to you. You jerk your head up, looking to see who it is, if you know them- perhaps an official or guard from the kingdom’s security.

“Princess Say’ri.”

“Hmm?”

You finally jerk your head towards this person, and your left hand has crept towards a sword far before you have recognized such an action. You notice this stranger put his hands up, laughing. “Peace,” he says. You notice your hand resting against one of the hilts and place it back, as if to pretend it was never there, instead observing this stranger who knows who you are.

Your head tilts as you piece him together- messy gray hair standing to attention, the tease of age beginning to wear down his olive skin, a thin needling scar on the edge of one brown eye, a plain black tunic and brown pants (well tailored) with a leather knapsack to the side, a thin-lipped smile that communicates a surprising amount of warmth and familiarity. Fie! Have you met this person? The slack of their body language yet distant reverence is enough to cause you to feel drawn to him before having ken of his name.

Finally, you confess, if only because your own confoundment at the situation irks you so. “Forgive me, sire, but my memory escapes me. Have we before met?”

Realization hits him. “Apologies, your grace!” He bows quickly, and though you are not used to the sight, you allow it. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Robin. I’m the strategist of the Ylissean Shepherds.”

Your mouth drops. News travels quickly when relayed to a nation’s sovereign, and you admit reverence to the Shepherds of Ylisse. Their conflict with Plegia surrounding their murder of Former Exalt Emmeryn was nipped in the bud in a surprisingly short time. Still, you did not expect the lead strategist of Prince Chrom to have time, much less desire, to visit your humble kingdom.

“Mercy,” you muse. In your tongue, you reply "Hello, Robin.” It is shaky and rickey, like each syllable could spring a trap.

“It’s okay, your majesty. We can speak in Chon’sinese” he says in your tongue with manageable fluidity. _Quite well spoken in such a short time; do the legends jape to call you an amnesiac?_

Regardless, you smile. “Thank you. I am grateful that you decided to visit us.” You bow in kind. “It is an honor, Robin.”

His smile grows. “I’m flattered, honestly.”

You nod your head, because he seems to think himself undeserving of such praise and you wish him to deny that thought. “I have heard of the Ylissean War. Rest assured you are admired here.”

Robin’s smile grows sheepish. “Damn, I’m honored. Thank you, your grace.”

Your face tightens at the title, suddenly giving you ken of his own reluctant reaction. To divert the conversation, you ask “What brings you to Chon’sin? It is a few weeks away even by your western shores. A journey so long must have a reason.”

Robin scratches the back of his head. He seems to take awhile to think- perhaps you should dull down your tongue for him to understand. “I read a lot,” he explains.

“A wise move,” you respond. He laughs in response. For such a notable tactician, he is strikingly humble and normal. Perhaps some officials would call it uncouth or classless, but action has always mattered to you more than words.

Robin remembers his early train of thought. “Oh! I should say, I decided to visit because…” he thinks for a second. Either the reason escaped him or he cannot remember him, and you’d be a liar to claim you weren’t suspicious of him. Still, it matters not- he is here now. You will work out the details as the evening passes by.

You look towards the festival. “Because…” you help him out.

Robin perks his head. “I read up about the party,” he explains. “Because of this, it was good time to visit Chon’sin.” He puts his hand up in the air in grand fashion, following it with his eyes. You can’t deny that you are as well. “Lucky me, making the first day!”

You smile. “I’m grateful to have you as a visitor,” you say.

“So how does it work?” he asks. “Same as any other, or different?”

You think, face downturned. “I…” How to explain to him without looking clueless or sad. “This is my first festival. Celebration.”

He repeats the word for festival to himself. Then: “Don’t worry.” He stands up and says “I suppose we shall figure it out as we go.” He outstretches a hand to you. “If you will.”

Quite bold, to expect a princess to accompany a commoner, but you are as typical a princess as he is a commoner. You take his hand, and he pulls you up. “I accept,” you tell him.

As you rise to your feet he bows once more. “Charmed,” he says. You run a circle into his hand once, trying to communicate that you are equals, before you let go to stand on your own. Thoughts buzz in your head, as if you are trying to fill in missing pages of a familiar book, but you imagine the pages will fill in as you go.


	2. Chapter 2

The two of you walk down the city streets near the old town center, always in the same loop of streets, never straying too far from its heart (per your quiet request, as you take paths that always lead you back to the start). You do not yet visit any booths or attend any streetside events, but you don’t mind, and from what you can observe, Robin is just fine with the development as well.

After all, it is not impossible to discern things about Robin from observation.

Your easiest observation is that he is clumsy in your tongue. You ask him a couple times if he would prefer to speak in Ylisse tongue, but he waves it off. Usually those fresh in your tongue speak formally, as if to compensate for imbalance with clarity. Robin is not one of those people. He’s an informal speaker, and will often use and misuse words meant for levity that either do not mean what he thinks they mean, or do but are very odd customs. At the very least, he makes you look less the strange one.

Your next observation is that Robin is very outgoing. You came to the festival to observe, and perhaps to… be there. You would get a lot of comfort, being among your people in such a time, but far be it from anyone’s responsibility- or necessity- to ken of your presence. On the other hand, Robin- already a stranger in a land unlike his- waves hello to everyone (a Ylissean custom, clearly, as Chon’sin is far too cautious to perform further than a head-nod between citizens) and makes short conversation with them that they rarely, if ever, return for more than a passing second, bewildered. Still, he always smiles hard enough to tear his skin on his cheekbones and shrugs when they leave.

The third is how you catch him with his hands in his pockets sometimes, not quite looking at you but still giving it presentable effort. At first, you admit you’re flattered, (though you find it unnecessary for him to act bashful) but he doesn’t cease as you walk together. When you notice him looking away, you look to guide him back with your eyes. He wears a frown sometimes that he always turns into a smile. It’s sympathetic and sorrowful, and you are as comforted by it as you are repulsed.

They are only three, but time has been fresh. Perhaps more will reveal what you wish to ken.

You return to the heart once more. It is lined in a kidney-loop with stalls, individual tents making way to encompassing tarps. The fountain is to the west side, nearly on the edge. Your coming across the fountain once more is when you decide to broach the subject. Aye, if only you could put it off for eons and enjoy the festival, but _his_ is a grip that only numbs you the tighter it grasps, and it is hard to breathe in it.

“I am sure…” you start, eyes cautious, voice serious. He looks at you- for once you fail to return his gaze. The words claw at your throat to escape to whence they came, but you expel them like a demon. “You have heard about Walhart?”

He nods, and his gaze disintegrates from you. “I have,” he admits. “Apparently it’s… died out?” He thinks and quickly says “Down. Died down. A little stable, at least.”

“Meaning?”

He shrugs. “This is the first time since…” he sighs, as if he’s used to lacking the word for the descriptor on his mind. The effort is enough to keep him in place. “ _Everything…_ that I could pay visit. Now that I’m confident that things… conditions are stable.”

You nod, but disgust rises to the surface. Before he can think he caused it, you apologize, head settling downward, face burning offensively. “It is quite stable.” You know that it’s a rocky peace. Yen’fay knows it. Yet, that’s the path he has Chon’sin walk, and the more time passes, the more you wait for the path to inevitably hit the wall of Walhart.

“Princess?”

_Oh._

You lock eyes with Robin, mouth downturned in concern. You smile, though it doesn’t reach. “Worry not,” you insist. “That’s why we’re here, is it not? To not worry.”

Robin nods. “Then I would advise the same, your grace. Worry not.”

You smile, and tension leaves your body- though it doesn’t flow away as much as you foist it off a cliff’s edge. “Well said.” You look around and find that there are vendor’s stalls nearby. You look at Robin with an expectant look. “Shall we enjoy it then?”

His smile grows the widest you’ve seen it. “That sounds amazing!”

You can’t help but laugh to yourself at his enthusiasm. “Then enjoy it we shall.”

\---

The two of you stand and watch as the vendor cooks behind him. Two iron bowls only holding rice sit on the counter of the stall. As he fries up a pair of fish slices on a wok that embraces the flames beneath it, Robin looks at the bowl, expectant and anxious.

“It is rice,” you say plainly. “It will not attack you.” You smirk. “As far as I have been told.”

He chuckles. “These are… nice bowls for a festival.”

You nod in agreement. You recall conversation with the council about stalls serving food you would imagine to be hard to eat at a festival, but you could have stood to listen better. “This is how it’s done,” you explain (as best as you can). “A lot of the wares here are to celebrate Chon’sin rather than bow to convenience.”

Robin chuckles. “That’s very neat.”

“Gratified that I explained it well,” you respond. _Especially as it was spontaneous, hah!_

You hear the familiar hiss of steam from a dying fire as the chef sets the wok on an iron platform. The two of you observe, captivated, as he removes the fish onto a carving board and works to chop it up into slices. It’s swift enough to amaze you both, as foreign to you as it is to him. You often are given your meals after they were made, and never witness the process. Is this what it’s like? You feel an odd kinship with the chef as he places the fish pieces evenly into the bowls with gloved hands, and are quick to thank him when your food is prepared.

He seems a little offput but responds with a slight smile. You feel your knapsack of coins against your leg. Of course, how did you almost forget? You reach to open it, placing a couple of coins between your fingers until you hear Robin clear his throat.

“Your grace,” he whispers- always your grace, as if to avoid other words out of linguistic fear. “We… don’t pay here, do we?” You cock your head to the side. “I tried to buy something earlier and couldn’t. They don’t charge as this is celebration, correct?”

You smirk, embarrassed that he knows more than you do. “Mercy! Then I shall take your word for it.” The two of you reach for your bowls, and for two pair of chopstick. You wait for him to stop you and say something, walking slowly, cautiously, as though expecting a snare trap-

“Hey!”

You stop in your place, and Robin flinches. _The rope has been pulled._ You shove aside worry to look back. He meets your gaze and says “Be sure to return the bowls for I to wash.”

 _Ah, that makes sense._ “Understood, sir.”

“Thank you, young lady,” he responds, waving you off. You turn around, a little stymied that he doesn’t recognize his princess, primarily irate that it’s your fault entire.

The two of you sit on the edge of the fountain where you met. You set your bowl on your lap, and Robin on the side of the fountain. “It may soak if you're not careful,” you point out.

“You ken better than I,” he says, and places it in his lap.

“I question the accuracy of the statement,” you respond with a miniscule grin, using the chopsticks to take your first bite of fish.

He toys with the bowl. “I am…” He shows the inside to you. “This safe to eat, right?” You tilt your head. “No offense meant,” he insists. “I'm just not used to such dish use in a festival. Usually they're on sticks and paper.”

“You eat fish and rice on paper?”

He flushes. “No, not that,” he responds with a nervous laugh. “They're... more finger foods. Not a dish.”

You place your hand up in a manner that pleads for peace with him. “‘Twas just a jape,” you insist with a small smirk. He goes white, as if he should have known, and you giggle quietly. “I’d not known myself capable of such.”

He closes his eyes, but he's smiling sweetly, creases on his eyes stretching upward. You assure him “It's surely fine. I'll bet gold that he washed the bowls with care.”

“Course,” he replies. His smile fades as he lifts his chopsticks. “Shouldn't worry.” He takes a bite, utilizing the chopsticks deftly for someone who you take to be new to it. A little clumsy, but reasonably adept. Though to be true, that's how you would describe him as a person you've gotten to know.

He takes another bite and a grain of rice sticks to his face. You wonder how long it will be before he notices.


	3. Chapter 3

You  _ ooh  _ a few pitches too high for your comfort as you pass a divination booth on the other side of the fountain from the chef’s booth. You remember loving it the few times through your years you were allowed to indulge. Over time you knew not to take stock in the fortunes as divine truth- only the Divine Dragon can accurately predict the future- but they certainly give you much to dwell on. Divination in general is not of Chon’sin origin- there is little fancy and insubstantial in your culture- so it’s largely of Rosanne emigration, but you still find it a guilty pleasure.

“I believe we have found our next activity,” you tell Robin. 

He looks to see what it is, and grins. “Fortune! I know a Shepherd who would love this.” You smile to hear him speak so highly of his fellows. “Chrom’s wife, Sumia. If she wasn't playing on flowers herself, every village, she would visit one.” With a laugh “She even took me a few times!” 

You notice his eyes grow fonder at the memory of his friend. “That in mind, ‘twould be my honor were you to go first.” 

He raises his hand. “And your grace?” 

You shake your head at the title, but haven't lost patience with it yet. “I will go after,” you respond. 

He smiles and bows as he walks toward the vendor. You chuckle affectionately. At this rate you would think treating you as the princess would at least escape his mind. 

You stand against a wooden tentpole, swords pressing its surface before you do. You fold your arms and rest your eyes. As you do, you realize fully how tense you are. Your muscle clings to your bones, and your hands retreat to the hilts of your katanas. You take a couple of deep breaths to soothe yourself but you're as bound as the sarashi tied around your chest. 

“Gods!” 

You flinch when someone screams behind you, jumping away from the tentpole and nearly falling. Behind you, you see a graying woman hiding behind several canvas paintings standing on wooden easels. 

“Peace!” You shout in abrupt panic. “I will not harm you!” 

She peeks from behind a painting of several multicolored fish. “Then how do you dress in such violence?” She points beside you, and you realize before you follow, as your hands are still on your swords. As if her point was made, she adds “This is a festival, not a battle. You're going to worry everyone!” Her face settles, and she leaves the canvas to face the front. “That aside, would you like to browse my wares?”

You shake your head and manage a smile. “You have my regards,” you say. It's not that they aren't skillfully done; the fish remind you of your days skin diving just behind the castle, but you highly doubt that such large paintings are free- or that you could put it in a place that would not catch the eye of Yen’fay. He allowed you to visit town, not spend the treasury on frivolous things.

You instead take a seat on the ground before the divination tent, crossing your legs. You're angry at first, set to provide steam hot enough for the prior vendor to cook his fish on. How dare she act like you ken not what you're doing. That you have no reason to be afraid of a conflict. While not commonplace, Chon’sin has suffered an infestation of bandits, and you haven't ignored how your owner Walhart, self-stylized conqueror he may be, has only performatively counteracted them. 

At the same time… you sigh. Is there really a reason for you to be so suffocatingly wound? To be on guard above or below the surface of your skin when you are with a new friend at the Chon’sin Festival, which you left the castle specifically to attend. You set out to enjoy this meeting. ‘Twould be quite the fool of you to refuse to do so. 

You notice Robin is taking a little longer than you expected, though it's been years since you've had a fortune given so perhaps you ken naught. During this time, you close your eyes once more, sitting straight up on your crossed legs, resting your hands by your knees, taking deep breaths. 

You could use guidance at being forcibly peaceful, you decide. 

You hear Robin leave the divinator’s tent before you open your eyes. He kneels by the ground next to you. Your heart speeds up as you feel his presence near you, but strangely you do not move. There’s something about Robin that triggers your defenses, but your hands stay on your knees, not on your katanas. 

“Well met,” you breathe to him. 

“I imagine you can go?” he says. 

You bow your head. You were the one who dragged him here, fair, but you would like to avoid thinking of the future. You just swore that you were going to enjoy yourself, yes? Perhaps to do so, you must cut the weight of expectation. 

You lean to stand up, tripping backwards for a second but standing tall. “Upon thinking, I will decline,” you reply. 

Robin stands with you, but you can see him frown from where you stand. “Really?” he asks. “Why the change?”

You shake your head, because you are not ken to the entirety of the reasons in order to tell him. “‘Tis not what I wish having had time to think about it.” You start to walk away. “‘Tis that simple.”

“Your grace,” he says, and you stop cold. Before you can lecture him on proper etiquette between friends in Chon’sin, he continues. “You shouldn’t worry, and give it a try. You may enjoy it.”

You don’t look back at him. “I would simply not like to give my mind to the future.” You sigh. “Let us enjoy the  _ now. _ ”

He goes quiet, but should you chance looking behind you can feel in his body language that he is not tense or slack, but perhaps more composed than ever. You force a smile but ‘twould be a lie to say that you are not sad. 

You’re doing quite poorly at this festival business. No wonder you always stayed in! 

“I understand,” he says. You feel him approach you again, smiling. Smiling seems to be his most prominent personal trait; always somewhere between legitimate and calculated to the point where it’s a struggle to discern what he feels. You know not if you read people badly, or if he is simply hard to read. 

“If you don’t mind,” he says, eyes finding the fountain “I have a suggestion from Ylisse. It will cost you coin, but is harmless.” You’re listening. “Let’s go to the fountain, aye?” 

You nod, and follow him there. He smiles as he reaches its edge. Digging into the pocket of his pantaloons, he finds a small coin- easily the least valuable just by observation. You sit on its edge and reach for your knapsack, pulling out the first coin you can find. It’s silver and fine, but you don’t mind. 

He notices. “Are you sure that’s the cheapest? It looks nice.”

You shrug. Checking behind and around you, you say “I am a royal. I admit to being privileged in finance.”

He nods. “If you say so.” You both look inside the fountain. “No coins there,” he notes. “We must look quite the fools.”

You smirk. “Fie to them if they care.” He sputters a chuckle. “Your game?”

“Aye,” he says, coin upheld. “It’s simple. A little silly, but simple. All it is, you take the coin, make a wish, and put the coin in the fountain. Superstition says it’ll come true.”

You shake your head, unable to suppress a laugh. “It’s silly, I am aware,” he repeats. 

“It matters not,” you respond. “I would be honored to try.” 

“Honored,” he repeats, and you swear he is flushing just a tad. “My thanks.” You nod with a disarming grin, facing the fountain. You close your eyes and hold the coin in your hand. You run through what to wish for with alarming sincerity, as though you are damning to insignificance that which you do not wish for. You could wish for an end to Walhart’s invasion, but the nation would still be led by your craven brother. You could wish for him to find courage in his heart, but Walhart would still be a pressing problem. You could wish for freedom for your people, but you ken that any realistic freedom will require many deaths. You could wish for their safety, but safety and freedom are such opposites in this case. You should understand- Yen’fay sacrificed their freedom for their safety. No wish you could pray for would make everything better- and you cannot bring yourself to sacrifice anything. 

“Your grace?”

You feel his hand on your shoulder and involuntarily flinch. He is forward, you’ll give him that, but at your reaction removes it as though he placed it on a lit fire. There is no coin in his other hand. “Don’t be…” you start, staring into the rippling water as the spray falls onto your hand and the coin. “It’s understandable,” you add. “In Chon’sin, we are distant. You would send the wrong message that way.”

“My apologies,” he says too quickly. 

You shake your head. “‘Tis fine. Now you know.”

You admit, though, that you felt… secure from your thoughts knowing he was concrete and present. No… knowing that he was invested in what you were thinking, even when he had no ken of your thoughts. Now, they are scattered, and you are not sure what you want, so with your mind’s voice you wish for things to be  _ better,  _ somehow, better than they are, and let your coin loose in the water, where it sinks next to Robin’s. 

“Was that all?” you ask, rankled brow. 

“Not much to it,” he explains apologetically, “but it’s nice enough.”

You nod, hoisting yourself up. “‘Twould be how I describe it.” You’re on your feet again, and he stands next to you. “Thank you, Robin.” He doesn’t say anything, but he’s beaming, and you are uncharacteristically content with this development.


	4. Chapter 4

Not more than two minutes later finds you standing enraptured by a duo of musicians. True to Chon’sin form, they are distant and unattached, but you can tell they are special to each other by the way they play in perfect sync, looking at each other with knowing, respectful glances to complement each other. There’s a twinge of affection, enough to make you believe they are lovers. You feel like a easily swept fool for finding it sweet, but that place is the place you are at. 

Robin notices before you do. “Enjoying it?” 

‘Twould appear that you are, tapping your foot and bobbing your head in rhythm. You care not, however. “They are doing well,” you say with mock defense. “I claim amnesty on this.”

“Oh ho!” he laughs. “To be fair, it has nice rhythm. Very bustling.”

“Quite!” You notice him tapping his feet and laugh. “See, now you’re doing it!” 

He looks down at his feet and laughs. “Suppose I am,” he says. Then with a comical scowl “traitors!” You sputter laughter next to him, and it knocks you out of rhythm for a moment. 

“This is a great song,” he adds. “Music in Ylisse is softer and calmer. This is energy!”

You nod. “Chon’sin music is not about the conscious,” you explain. “People rarely sing or take the lead role because it isn’t about the one, but the workings of the body and mind of all. ‘Twould rather show unity than speak alone.”

“What would this represent?”

You smile. “This captures the immediate phase of romance.”

Robin looks at you, surprised. “I expect them to be soft. Back home.” After a second, he explains “So people can pause for their moment.”

You close your eyes. “An intriguing idea,” you admit. “Here, the focus is on the rushing of blood. The swift, painful beating of the heart.” As you continue, your consciousness leaves the realm and enters your thoughts. “The flood of emotions. The monopoly a special person has on your mind.” A pause. “Apologies, sir, were you able to understa-”

“Is this from experience?”

You stop moving. Not at how abruptly he asks; no, that’s something you appreciate in all honesty. You’ve redirected your energy to trying to offer a memory. You can only pull the confirmation of such from a few flames during your teenage years- certainly now it’s a concept more than something that matters. You’ve halted a lot of human urges. True, there was little time or place for them as the daughter of royals, but the little experience you had turned into none when things changed. When the invasion loomed. When your parents were killed. When your brother tucked his tail in and bowed to the one responsible for it all. You realize it’s been a good few years since you’ve fully embraced Say’ri the human being, and not Say’ri the princess. 

You realize the song has ended. Robin is still looking at you, patiently waiting for an answer, but you ken not an answer that will satisfy him while taking little from you. “My apolo-”

You hear glass shatter and wood break, and hear the screams of many in its wake. You and Robin both turn to the sound. It’s not visible, but it’s very audible.

“That’s bad,” Robin blurts.

You place your hands on the hilts of your swords and run after the sound. “Your grace!” Robin shouts, but it’s no use to stop your running. You go to turn the corner along the street you returned to the center on, but you nearly run into a brigand. The two of you step back and he raises his axe to slam down on you. You blink, and unsheath your sword.

Then- a flash of lightning. There’s no storm- not even a cloud- and you are certain lightning does not shoot to the side as it has here. You throw yourself down to dodge, pushing back with your legs. The brigand stops in his path, looking at you as if every one of his faculties has shut down- and his last sight was of the gods. You notice that he’s burnt nearly to sickening, inhuman black as he falls onto his face just after you’re able to skitter away. 

You look up to see Robin holding a tome open in one hand, his knapsack left open. “You  _ did  _ fear something like this,” you note bitterly. 

He nods. “I’ll apologize later. We work to do.”

What’s fair is fair, you decide, but you’re more disappointed than you’ve been yet to know that no one expected a good time without reservations. 

You notice another muscular brigand run through the southeastern end, close to the woman with the tent full of paintings. She screams and hides behind one, taking another as a shield. The brigand cares not, walking in slowly, axe raised, laughing. He’s toying with his kill, who is screaming her pleas as he draws ever so slowly closer. 

“Hah! You think canvas is enough to save you?” As if to prove a point, he runs his axe through the one hiding her, causing her to scream louder. The fish in the center of the painting you recognize splits in half along the belly, and your eyes widen. 

You run with your katanas and leap into the tent with an enraged scream, swords out. The mocking grin he sports is the last face he makes as you drive both swords into his back, through a thin tunic, deep enough to stick out of his chest, splashing blood. He crumples into a heap, smirk mocking the sky. 

The woman you can see within the painting acknowledges you with a nod, but says nothing more, shaking and frozen into place at once. You understand, and simply say “be well” as you run away. 

Another brigander meets you axe-first as you run north towards him. You two crash into a cart as you meet, him throwing his axe into your katanas as they continue to exchange the blood of the last one with his. He swings wildly at you, and is armored so that it takes more than a simple hit to disable him. It’s a dance to block and attack so much that you lose yourself in it, going nowhere that is not where you are.

You hear Robin scream, angry and pained. 

“Robin!”

No longer content to waste time, you block the axe with one sword and cut into his arm with the other. He howls in pain and anger. You bark a laugh.  _ As though I shall fear you!  _ You slice into his arm again, then run your sword through his chest. 

“Submit!”

Though you can only make some damage through his armor at first, you take both swords and lunge into him so forcefully that the pressure of the hits knocks him over. As he falls onto the ground, you plunge both swords into his gut as hard as you can manage. He screams again, but you cannot afford him mercy as you push further. He screams as you finish, agonized. No words escape him, no final pleads, nothing but pain- pain in so many ways that one typically has when they hit the end of something. 

You grit your teeth and slice his throat. Now you can afford him mercy. 

You run to Robin without catching your breath, destined to fall onto the blood-splattered ground at such a rate. He has fired a series of lightning shots into his foes, two of whom lie on the ground before him atop each other, one with a bloodied axe. He has no wounds oh him, you quickly surmise. He bows to the ground towards someone lying on their back that you can tell is wasting away, her soul dissolving and leaving their eyes. 

She looks at you. “Princess…”

You’re surprised even after she’s left this realm, her body an empty shell before you holding nothing. You see a clean cut through her stomach, side to side like a grimace. Robin looks down at her, and you look around for any signs of further brigands. The area is clear- though it looks an absolute mess. 

You lift up a (poorly tied) shoulder blade from one of the fallen men. It’s dark silver unto the point of blackness, but faintly you can see some red in it. You hold it close to a nearby street lantern, its towering metal bent towards you. You see nothing until your eyes adjust to the bold light, and with faded maroon paint you make out an emblazoned crimson wolf’s head.,

“Fie!”

Robin looks up as you throw the latest of Walhart’s shields onto the ground at your feet, then throw your head into your hands with anger, looking at the so-easily wartorn city square. What was once a festival, a celebration and offering from those specialized in their field to Chon’sin, is now a mess of tatters; broken tents and overturned food on the dirt with blood stains in jagged, patternless patches, with the people either hiding or dead in Robin’s mournful arms with the weight of the world on them both.

He sighs as you keep watch on the furthest corner. “This was the fortune teller,” he explains, voice raw as it retreats to Ylissean tongue. “I... “ he swallows, choking down a sob. “I’m sorry.”

You close your eyes and shake your head, sorrowful for him. He stands as you open your eyes, waiting for something to break through the streets and rush for you. Even as all that appears are fellow citizens, looking at the disaster before them, you watch the path they enter as the festival closes, and all you are left with is the nothingness you emerged from. 


	5. Chapter 5

_ Fie.  _

_ Fie!  _

_ Fie, fie, fie, fie, fie!  _

You splash the surface of the ocean that seeps into the castle grounds enough to look as petulant and spiteful as you feel. 

You’re no longer dressed in the muddy boots and tight jacket with your katanas at your back, but in a traditional golden-and-pink silk sarong that, even when tied, barely covers your smallclothes. It’s fleeting, too fleeting; in them you feel vulnerable despite your best attempts to stay on guard. Perhaps it’s because you know you will fight no one, and you will be as far-removed from the action as Yen’fay can manage. You have been retired, and you hate it.

As far as he’s concerned, you are no longer a part of the relations between Chon’sin and Valm. 

The shield does not sway him how you hoped. This is proof enough that, even with the tenuous relationship you have with him, Walhart is set to conquer Chon’sin entirely. He is an enemy. He is to be your doom. 

It’s the fact that Yen’fay seems to agree with such that truly angers you. 

You try not to remember his words, because he always had a manner of softening and lengthening his words in a language that demands simplicity. In your mind, he can cut to the chase and tell you directly that he is taking this as a sign that he needs to submit to Walhart- perhaps with absolute obedience he will stay any danger to the land once known as Chon’sin- now, as far as you can see, part of Walhart’s empire.

You try not to remember your words in return. Angry opposition, desperate defense, and eventually the only thing you could do- enraged, horrified insults and screams that you are surprised do not alarm the city below. If you remember the words, you will remember it all, and thinking on things makes them real. 

After that, you were escorted from his war room, where many strange people filled it up. You imagine he is still there, more willing to hear from strangers to Chon’sin than the last of his own family.

Were there a more apt metaphor for Yen’fay, you’ve heard it naught.

You close your eyes again and scream, letting the wind above the oceans catch it and carry it away. There’s no wall ahead of you, just endless oceans that lead to a land even you know not- or no land at all. And still you would sail it all- no, swim it on your own- to leave it all further and further behind.

You sigh. You’re near tears, you should cry, but you haven’t felt the urge to since your parents died- just bottled up rage and emptiness you try and fill further than your anger. Now the race is set to be a loss. 

“Gods help me,” you sigh at the sky in exasperation. 

You hear a pair of footsteps and swerve around, sarong swaying in the breeze like an infirmary gown. You see a familiar sight run towards you in a large black coat with golden lining. You see the gray hair next, and slowly discern him entire. 

“Mercy!”

Robin slows as he approaches you, your bare feet in the sand a contrast to his mudboots. He bows while standing before you. “Your grace.”

You sigh. “Please stay your tongue,” you tell him. “That’s no way to greet a friend.”

He raises a creased eyebrow, and his face brightens. “Friend, you say?”

You nod, and as you do you glance down at yourself. With disgust: “Were you still an acquaintance, I would have dressed for it.” It’s a jape, but mirth doesn’t reach your eyes, and Robin notices. 

“Besides,” you add bitterly. “As it stands we are well on our way to becoming a part of Valm.” His eyes widen, hopeless.  _ Yes, it is quite wretched, can it be denied?  _ “You will soon no longer be speaking to a princess at all.”

He shakes his head. “No, that’s…”

You sigh, because you have nothing to stay him. You can only tell him everything and let him release his worry now. 

How he is worried at all, you’ll never know. 

A half-hour later finds you both sitting on the sand, looking into each other’s eyes. You’re tired, he’s steeled, and you’re both fading from focus. Truth be told you had no expectations to see him again after you bid farewell in the town square. You promised him that you would be all right- and to prove this all you received are lectures from castle staff for wandering into danger. Still, he’s back here, as if he didn’t believe you- as if he recognized your words as hollow. 

“That’s something,” he blurts. 

“It should be good for something,” you reply, tone still tasting as sour as it sounds when leaving your throat. You hadn’t expected to tell him the entire story of Chon’sin in the years following the deaths of your parents, but it became easier and easier to as you went, because he is your friend; the first friend you have had since the king and queen perished. 

“And you?” you ask, curious but speaking accusatively. “I have the distinct sense that what brings you to Chon’sin is not to taste our culture.”

He doesn’t react at first, as though you should be telling the truth. Then: “I do wish...” He looks back up at you, more formal than you have ever seen him. Your face is of stone, you know this to be true- but you will not deny that a hint of the anger remaining from before has shaped it. 

“We have heard…” he starts. It’s in Ylisse tongue, and you understand it well enough, if not completely. If it is easier for him, you are welcoming of it. “We’ve heard of your plight. As Chon’sin, and of the continent of Valm. Ultimately, a threat to others is a threat to Ylisse- and we have heard through spies that he plans to cross the seas in his warships and wage war on the Eastern continents.”

Your eyes widen, but you are hardly surprised. ‘Tis a move you expect from such a power-hungry bastard.

“I offered to scout Chon’sin myself to see what the state was at the moment in regards to its relation with Walhart,” he continues. “Last night told me more than I expected to know, and any mystery remaining you cleared up.” He looks away. “Thank you for that. I really appreciated it.”

You try and smile. It’s shaky. You speak, still in Chon’sinese. “After how last night went, I should at least leave you with something to remember.”

He turns his face away with a jagged breath, but smiles at you, as though slapped and kissed at once. “I… I did enjoy it,” he admits. Your two diverging tongues hold the conversation. “I…” he looks out into the ocean. “I don’t have many memories… like this,” he explains. “Just nice… doing fun things. There’s not a moment where I don’t worry, but… this sated it. And I’ll treasure it.”

Your smile is less shaky. “It was my honor.”

He scoots forward, and you see a flash of affection race across his face, almost too swift to discern, but just a hair too slow. “I promise I will return,” he says. “It may be a few months, perhaps even a year, but I swear it to be so. From there, we will fight the war and restore Chon’sin. I promise this to you.”

You feel the stone of your face softening into something… softer. Milder. “For my part,” you say, “I will give the forces of Ylisse something they can follow.” You lock with his gaze. “You have my word in turn. You return, and I will have for you a reason that you are glad you returned.”

He smiles. “Do your best, absolutely, but… I’ll always have a reason to return.”

You flush. Damn that man, he should know better than to be charming. 

“Say’ri, you have been gracious enough to not only show a man strange to you a good time, but you have gladly educated him on your culture when you would have been just as well to leave it in your head. The fact that you will fight for it shows that no matter what Walhart strips away, no matter what he does, Chon’sin will live for as long as you do.” 

You finally feel tears sting your eyes, and you stand up, light in body. He stands to meet you, but he is not apologetic. This is where you are. It will sting, it will hurt, but at the same time, for the first time in years, you are not lonely, because for as much as he believes you carry the fire of Chon’sin, you have left enough of a piece of it with him with the trust that with the spark of your home in his heart, he will carry the fire with you. 

“Fie, Robin…” you mumble. Soon, you embrace him in a hug, wrapping an arm around his neck, face resting in his shoulder blade. You don’t cry, because you aren’t ready, but as he cautiously wraps a hand around your waist, where you feel it against the sarashi beneath your robe, you are alarmed at how heartened you are to have him there.

\---

The festival has been cancelled, and the fish chef you and Robin prior visited is all that remains. He serves you food, and neither of you make a sound. You aren’t supposed to be here, and he knows that you aren’t supposed to be here. As far as Yen’fay knows, you are still clad in your fragile little robe watching waves go by. When he finds out, you have no intention of returning. 

He hands you a bowl and asks for payment. Repairs, he claims, though the dead grass is free of blood and the wreckage has been summarily swept away. You don’t hesitate to give him more than he needs. 

You take it and sit down on the edge of the fountain. You feel new katanas embrace your back in the same clothes you first visited the festival in. Right now, all they protect you from is errant water that sprays out of pattern every now and again, harder and more violent than intended. The place is emptier than perhaps is intended. After all, several people- friends and enemies alike- lost their lives on the grounds here. You notice the empty lot where the divination teller once was, and turn away in shame. You’ll never forgive yourself for the missed opportunity to visit her, but it’s not as though your future is aimless and incomplete anymore. 

You reach into your knapsack and pull out a single bronze coin, now a lot more cautious about your money. You look into the fountain. Now you know what to wish for. 

Not for his return. For victory to the oncoming war. 

You know he will return.

The coin splashes in the water and sinks to the bottom, next to the two from yesterday- a Chon’sin silver coin, and mere Ylissean pence. You wonder what he wished for- but eventually he may not have to tell you. 

You know what to do, and smile, confident even in a fool’s error. 

You hear rumbling from the streets nearby. You aren’t sure what it is, but your hands clutch the hilts of your katanas, willing and able to fight. 

You’re not ready, but you’re ready enough. 


End file.
